


The Tiger Job / Murder on the Venice-Simplon Orient Express

by aunt_zelda



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Murder, Cage Fights, Crime Fighting, Death Threats, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kidnapping, M/M, Married Couple, Multi, Murder, Past Relationship(s), Post-Series, Threats, Threesome, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2444384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working as a team of three after the departure of Nate and Sophie, Eliot focuses on protecting Parker and Hardison as best he can, while trying to distance himself emotionally. Eliot doesn't think he's good enough for Parker and Hardison, not to be in a triad with them: he's their guard dog, not their boyfriend. However, when Eliot is kidnapped by an old enemy, Parker and Hardison must race against a ticking clock and work with old friends and enemies to save Eliot before it's too late. </p><p>Meanwhile, on a train bound for Paris, Nate and Sophie are enjoying their retirement immensely. They're starting to feel the need for a third though, and have been looking around. And who should appear on the same train but James Sterling, their old friendly nemesis and current Interpol agent, hot on the trail of a pair of violent jewel thieves. When rich patrons start dropping dead, jewels go missing, and heavy snows trap the train in the Alps, Nate, Sophie, and Sterling must work together to find the culprits ... and manage to trip each other into bed in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. This was my first Big Bang and it took me so long to write.  
> I'm kind of amazed I finished.
> 
> This is set in the Triad Verse, an AU setting where instead of couples, triad relationships are the norm. That's basically the only hard and fast rule, like the BDSM AU everyone has their own variations. Couples do exist but they're rare and strange usually. 
> 
> Seemed like the perfect AU to try out Leverage in, since my two main ships for that fandom are OT3s.
> 
> Thanks to my beta, rahsax on tumblr, for reading and providing feedback so quickly when I was so late. 
> 
>  
> 
> Here is a link to the lovely art, created by zerdavulpes: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2445440/chapters/5418449
> 
>  
> 
> If I have forgotten any triggers or tags, please do not hesitate to let me know, and I will add them.

Eliot has a good life. 

He honestly hadn’t expected to live this long. Once he’d reached a certain point, he’d lived moment to moment, job to job. He’d tried to keep the list of his enemies short, but with every passing year, the list had grown longer and longer. Everyone had family – brothers, wives, children, parents – and all of them wanted him dead in payment for the things he’d done to their loved ones. He slept little, ate well, went home with whoever struck his fancy that night, and didn’t plan for the future. 

And then there was that one job. A team, assembled together, from loners like himself, headed by a man who’d chased him in the past: Nathan Ford. He ran a good crew, Eliot wasn’t about to deny that, but he wasn’t looking for a boss and was happy to just walk away. Then there was the problem of payment, and an attempted murder via more C4 than he’d ever seen this side of the Atlantic. Nathan Ford had come up with a plan, to get back at the man who’d tried to kill them all. Eliot was more than willing to do that, give Dubenich a lasting hurt instead of a bullet to the brain some night. 

Then there was one more job. And another. And another. And Hardison was setting them up an office, and fake identities, and Eliot would walk right out but … the identities were good. Better than he could have managed on his own. The kid knew his stuff, and even though he was a chatty bastard he got shit done, kept them all informed, was eager to learn how to play with a team. He was useful; knew how to make the computers do all the heavy lifting, and Eliot had never been especially good with technology. His fists, sure, but the tech was something he’d always had to outsource. It was a luxury, having someone who could handle that side of things while he focused on kicking heads. 

The girl was weird. The infamous Parker. Eliot wasn’t sure how he’d imagined her, when he’d heard the stories, but the awkward blonde who delighted in hoarding money and diving off of tall buildings fit the bill. She unnerved him at times, snuck up so silently that he couldn’t detect her. A few times she’d set him off by accident, and he’d pinned her to the wall on reflex. She didn’t scream or claw at him, she twisted slightly, asked him to show her how, what to do, and he did, and she broke his holds and slithered away and he started to feel less nervous when she was off on her own somewhere and he wasn’t there for backup. She could handle herself, for all she was a skinny little thing. 

Truth be told he hadn’t thought the team would last so long. A few months at most, a year on the outside. Nate Ford was not a well man, and Eliot would walk away because he wasn’t going to let himself be dragged down into that. Until that point though, he’d have stayed, and kept the rest of them safe. 

The team did succeed though. They became a family, an honest-to-god family, and they saved people. Eliot liked that; he liked being a good guy again, at least playing the role of one. He hadn’t been one in a very long time, and he never would be one again.

But maybe … just maybe … he could pretend to be one. And do some good along the way.

It’s just the three of them now, him and Parker and Hardison. Nate and Sophie gone, off to retirement (not that anyone actually believes that for one second, but Nate and Sophie won’t be running the big cons anymore.) The bar feels empty for a while, every so often Eliot will stumble across something they left behind, or think he sees them out of the corner of his eye, or turn to ask one of them a question, only to be faced with an empty chair. He’s become accustomed to their presence over the past five years. Five years is a long stretch, longer than Eliot’s had in a while, and it’ll take some getting used to. 

Still, things move along. The Black Book is full to bursting, and though some can be undone with Hardison’s wizardry, or Parker snatching evidence from the latest impenetrable vaults, or Eliot busting the right noses in the right bars, the majority require elaborate cons. Evil men and women from around the world fall to their knees, baffled by casts of colorful characters and led astray by complex machinations they only unravel when it’s far too late. Their companies crumble, their victims are compensated, and they are rendered unable to achieve such harm ever again – some go to jail, some are left penniless, all have their reputations utterly and systematically destroyed. 

Eliot loves this. Bigger cons, bigger rewards, bigger evils being toppled. Parker’s plans are perfection, sleek and elegant with just enough twisty bits to have the Parker-signature stamped all over them. Hardison is always coming up against new firewalls to burst through, or whatever it is that he does (Eliot still has trouble understanding exactly what it is sometimes.)

They are increasingly mistaken for a triad, now that Nate and Sophie are out of the picture. Their regulars at the restaurant know that they aren’t. This being Portland, alternate lifestyles are more common and accepted than in other parts of the country. There are couples around all the time, boldly walking down the streets and holding hands for all to see, Eliot still has to fight the urge to stare at them sometimes. Hardison and Parker get odd looks when they go out together, but no one gives them trouble or sneeringly asks where their third has run off to. Portland is weird like that. 

People ask him, when they’re out on cons, and then Eliot has to tell perfect strangers that no, he’s not with Hardison and Parker. The strangers ask him why, they tell him to make a move soon before someone snatches them up. Eliot just shakes his head, smiling at the thought of anyone trying to “snatch up” Parker.

Eliot plays lookout for them a lot. Parker likes safes and museums, high security areas, and loves getting off in them with Hardison. They break into a Ukrainian crime lord’s personal vault and find stacks of money and heaps of jewels everywhere, like some dragon’s horde. Parker is stripping off before Hardison’s even finished deactivating the laser grid. Eliot turns around quickly, as he always does, though he can’t forget the image of Parker, naked and pulling Hardison on top of her. 

Eliot insists on adjoining rooms at every hotel they stay at during their longer-term cons. For their protection, he insists. The sounds of them fucking against every flat surface just next door, just a handle turn away, has nothing to do with it. 

They are not for him. Eliot knows that deep down, no matter how red his face gets when he hears them moaning upstairs in Portland, no matter how hard he gets in the morning after dreaming of getting tangled up in their limbs, no matter how painful it is when a triad at the grocery store smile at them pointedly and ask how long they’ve been together. 

Eliot isn’t fit for them. Eliot isn’t good enough. 

Hardison is a good man. Parker is learning to be a good person. They care, they care so much it hurts. Eliot hasn’t had that luxury in so long that sometimes it frightens him. 

Eliot can be kind, he can be friendly, he can be loyal. (Oh, he can be loyal, he is loyal, he has long since given up on the idea of being loyal to anyone else but them.) He jokes with them, plans with them, protects them, is with them through thick and thin. But he cannot let himself fall into bed with them, never, not once, not even if they offered. (Which they haven’t. Of course they haven’t, they might not realize it, but deep down they know not to invite him to complete their relationship.)

Eliot reflects, critically, on the average span of years he’ll be of use to Hardison and Parker. He’s begun to wonder recently whether he should give Mr. Quinn a call, invite him into the fold, at the very least ask for advice on any young up-and-coming retrieval specialists. Eliot needs to train his replacement: he wouldn’t trust Hardison and Parker with anyone who hadn’t fit his standards. 

Maybe that young hopeful will become their third. But not Eliot. Never Eliot.

They are not for him. He is not for them.


	2. The Tiger Job / Murder on the Venice-Simplon Orient Express

“… bottom line is, this theater dies, this town dies too.” Hardison is pitching the latest group of helpless victims. It’s one of the smaller-time deals, like the sort they used to run with Nate and Sophie. Every so often they run one of these, to keep sharp and remember the little moments, in between names on the Black Book. 

Parker grins and straightens up, mimicking Nate unconsciously. “Ok, let’s go steal a ghost.”

The “ghost” is easily dealt with. A disgruntled actor fired several years ago in disgrace, putting on a costume and trying to ruin the festival with minor acts of sabotage and terrifying the superstitious actors with his antics. Hardison keels over with laughter at how Scooby Doo everything is, and Parker blinks in confusion until Hardison explains.

Eliot is just glad he managed to shove the diva out of the way before the sandbag clocked her on the head. A job with no deaths is a good job, in his mind. 

He ducks out during the rehearsal, a triumphant dress rehearsal after such a stressful series of weeks and the supposed “Scottish Play curse” haunting them. Eliot has seen enough renditions of the Scottish Play to last a lifetime, and he’d rather get some air. Hardison and Parker are waiting in the wings, watching the show and also keeping an eye out for any final bits of malfunctioning equipment left behind by the “ghost.”

Eliot listens to the clash of prop swords and smiles, pleased at the pace the show is going at. Maybe he should go back inside, see the final fight at least. Never know when you’ll need to fight a man with a prop sword. 

“Hey, how’s it going in there?” Eliot asks, tapping at his earpiece.

“So far so good,” Hardison whispers. Distantly, Eliot can hear the bellowing of two male actors. 

“If they’re Scottish, why aren’t they wearing kilts and blue facepaint?” Parker hisses.

Eliot smirks as Hardison launches into a tirade about the historical inaccuracies in _Braveheart_ before a stagehand shushes him. 

He doesn’t hear the men approaching, doesn’t catch the crunch of boots on gravel until it’s too late. They’re on him, striking at his head and grabbing at his arms. Eliot twists, dazed, jabs the nearest one in the gut and wrenches free, spins out and tries to get his back to a wall, bringing up his arms to block the oncoming blows. There’s three – no, four of them. Five, big, strong, young, and they know what they’re doing. Eliot darts out, and they surge forward, taking him on at once instead of going one at a time. Professionals. Smart. And they know his moves. They slam him down, hold him, and he writhes desperately as he feels a needle entering his skin. 

_No_. No, not like this, not with Parker and Hardison only a few hundred feet away. He can’t … he can’t … not yet … 

“Eliot? ELIOT?!” Parker and Hardison are yelling, but their voices are so small, echoing down a long tunnel.

Distantly, Eliot feels boots colliding with his stomach and back, leaving bruises. He jerks and shudders, spits blood onto the ground. He doesn’t feel … anything. 

Eliot sees the van backing up, the doors being thrown open. More men are inside. Vision swimming, he is hauled up and deposited into the van. He registers the metal of the van’s interior, and slips into unconsciousness as the handcuffs snap around his wrists. 

~*~

Sophie is beginning to wonder if she’ll die an old incomplete.

There are worse fates, she’s well aware of that. But failing to find a third to compliment her relationship with Nate would be such an embarrassment. These are modern times, yes, and there were all kinds of alternative people in Portland. She doesn’t _need_ a third, really, she could get by without one. But when Sophie gets right down to it she’s a traditionalist. She just doesn’t feel right without a third hanging about. And it would be wonderful to have someone help her with Nate at times. Nate, who spent nearly ten years raising a child with a single partner, can be very single-minded and intense when the mood strikes. Sophie isn’t used to being the sole focus in bed, and while it is flattering, she feels overwhelmed from time to time. Without a third to balance things, their arguments are more volatile, like those of teenagers still experimenting with a relationship. It’s exhausting, mentally and physically. 

Nate, of course, insists that they don’t need a third. He is content to let things remain how they are, indefinitely, honeymoon with Sophie around the world again and again. He rejects Tara as a potential third, and Sophie has to admit that he has a point there. She and Tara make excellent grifting partners, but as lovers they’ve never really clicked. Maggie has no interest in joining them, though she will happily host them when they pass through New York City – the apartment she’s moved into with a charming pair who own a notable art gallery has a spacious guest room. Nate pretends that Maggie’s rejection doesn’t hurt, but Sophie can see that it does. She steers them well away from New York, and indeed America, for the next leg of their journey.

“There are much easier ways to get from Venice to Paris,” Nate looks the train over critically.

“Nate, don’t be a spoilsport!” Sophie whaps him lightly on the arm with her gloves. “The Venice-Simplon Orient Express is a gorgeous line. I’ve only ridden it once before; I’ve been wanting to come back for ages.” Sophie smiles at the train, remembering the delicious food, scenic journey, and wealthy marks from her last journey aboard.

Nate glances down the platform, then starts. “Oh no,” he mutters under his breath. 

“What is it?” Sophie scans the crowd nervously. One of their old enemies coming back for revenge is always, unfortunately, a possibility these days. Prison sentences aren’t what they used to be.

“I … I thought I saw … nevermind.” Nate shakes his head. 

Sophie frowns. “Who was it?”

“Nobody. Probably.” Nate says quickly. 

The train whistles loudly. 

“We should board. Who do you think you saw?” Sophie asks, taking Nate’s arm as they step up onto the train. 

“Sterling.” Nate admits at last as they walk down a corridor to find their compartment. 

“Sterling? Here?” Sophie feels a flicker of fear before remembering that, technically, she isn’t a grifter or an art thief anymore. Sterling poses no threat to them … technically. If he chose, though, he could make a lot of trouble for them on this train, and through Europe. It was a risk, coming to Europe, with Interpol Agent Sterling prowling about, but they’d long ago crossed the line from enemies to … well, Sophie isn’t quite sure how to classify their relationship, but it’s far friendlier than it has any right to be. 

And she had her suspicions, about Sterling and Nate and Maggie, all those years ago. If it was Sterling that Nate had seen on the platform, maybe she can finally find out for certain, resolve that nagging curiosity once and for all. Nate’s shown interest in other men a few times outside of the cons, out-and-out seduced male marks himself when they’ve cast an appreciative eye at him. However, Sophie has never been able to discern whether his working relationship with Sterling all those years ago was truly one of business partners, or something else entirely. 

“Well, if it was him, I’m sure he’ll be making his presence known soon.” Sophie says, as casually as she can manage. 

“Oh, of that I have no doubt.” Nate growls, but it seems like bluster more than anything else. 

Sophie raises an eyebrow, but says nothing, and gets to unpacking her luggage. Nate’s body language is very … intriguing, whenever he mentions Sterling. Old Sophie, the Sophie who’d boarded this train nearly ten years ago with the goal of collecting as many jewels as she could carry regardless of their sentimental value to their owners, would have had a field day with Nate in this state. 

As it is, Sophie is going to see how this progresses. Sterling might not have been on that platform after all, and her speculations could have been for naught. But she has a sneaking suspicion otherwise. 

~*~

When the hood is yanked off, Eliot isn’t surprised to see Damien Moreau facing him.

Of course it’s Moreau. Anyone else would have had Eliot killed on the spot. Moreau would want Eliot to know it was him. For a secretive criminal financer, Moreau has always had a bit of an ego.

They’re in a dark room, concrete walls, one door, no windows, door hinged on the outside. Eliot is chained to the wall, new cuffs, new chains, no chance of snapping them. He still feels groggy from whatever they pumped into him during the flight. There was a flight, he doesn’t remember much of the trip due to the drugs, but he remembers a flight. He could be anywhere in the world, but he’s probably somewhere in Europe judging from the mold and the workmanship on the doorway. 

Moreau is just staring at him. There aren’t any visible implements of torture in the room, but that just means Eliot hasn’t spotted them yet. Or, worse, Moreau is planning on making this last a good long time. 

“How did you get out of prison?” Eliot has three reasons for asking this: 1) it’s damned impressive and he wants to know how Moreau managed it 2) there’s a chance this will get Moreau talking and rambling long enough for Eliot to find a way out of this, and 3) it’s direct and to the point, which Moreau had appreciated in the past from his underlings. 

Moreau smiles. “Even in prison, I had friends on the outside. People I made rich. Some, it is true, left me to rot. But others reasoned that, since I had made them so rich before, I could make them even richer in the future. So they broke me out of prison.”

Eliot nods. “How long you been out?”

“A few months. Sorry to disappoint, Spencer, but you were not at the top of my list. I had a business to rebuild from the ground up. This is the first free moment I’ve had in some time.”

Eliot holds back a crack about prison being nothing but free time, just barely. 

“So many scores to settle. So many business rivals who swooped in to snatch up my operations. Gutted my warehouses, abused my couriers, destroyed my routes …” Moreau smiles thinly. “I had quite a few people to kill in order to send the message that Damien Moreau was back. I’m surprised you didn’t notice.”

“I’m surprised you’re takin’ the time outta your busy schedule to handle me personally.” Eliot confesses. 

“Eliot Spencer,” Moreau seizes Eliot by the chin, shakes his head from side to side. “You are a special case. No one has betrayed me so completely as you.”

“So quit talkin’ about it and just kill me.” Eliot wrenches free of Moreau’s hold. 

“Are you so eager to die?” Moreau frowns. “I had hoped to find you living life to its fullest, so that this would hurt you even more. But no matter. You will not die now. Soon, though. You will not have to wait too terribly long. I am not a patient man, there is only so much I will be able to bear before putting you out of your misery.”

Eliot huffs a bitter laugh. “Like a dog, right?”

“You remember! That is good.” Moreau ruffles Eliot’s hair. “You used to be my dog. I shall make you my dog again.”

Eliot blinks. Then he laughs, grinning viciously at Moreau. “Not gonna happen, Moreau. Quit while you’re ahead.”

“Ah, you have a new master now? Well, a master and a mistress.” Moreau smiles, slowly. “You have not fucked them, I can see that from a mile away. Do they not fuck their pets?”

Eliot lunges forward, chains rattling as he strains to get at Moreau. 

Moreau doesn’t even flinch. He laughs. “I hope they let you sleep at the foot of their bed, at least. You were such a good dog.” Moreau starts for the door. “Sleep well, Spencer. You will need your strength, if you wish to see their faces one last time.”

And then he leaves, leaves Eliot in the dark, cold, damp cell, chained and alone.

Eliot closes his eyes, and thinks of Parker and Hardison. He thinks of them in bed, twined together under hotel sheets. He thinks of Parker straddling Hardison, her naked back and lithe shoulders, him laughing and her laughing back. He thinks of them thrusting against each other. He thinks of them wrapped in each other’s arms, dozing, sleeping, dreaming, together. 

This might be the last time he can allow himself to think of them. He will need to be strong, for whatever Moreau has planned, strong enough not to give Moreau the satisfaction of breaking him. Thoughts of Parker and Hardison will make Eliot soft, make him want to live, make him beg for his life. And Eliot cannot permit himself to do that. 

~*~

Another evening, another argument. Once again, it’s about their need for a third, though it sounds like they’re talking about the history of a specific painting, but at the root of it all is their inability to agree on where to find their third. 

The train ride has been lovely thus far. Their compartment is small but comfortable, the food at dinner is exquisite. But Nate is ruining everything with his pigheaded stubbornness and Sophie is so, so tired of this arguing. She loves Nate, and he loves her, but it isn’t _enough_ , and without a third they’re always going to be like this, madly in love but bickering like a pair of unbalanced teenagers. 

Sophie glances around and notices that they’re attracting attention. Other diners are eyeing them scornfully, sneering at the bickering incompletes.

“We’re making a scene,” she mutters, blushing.

Nate shoots a glare at the nearest diners. “What’s the matter, never seen a couple before?!” 

The triad at the next table blush identical shades of red and hide themselves behind their menus. 

Sophie thought she could wait until dessert, but she can’t. “You are _insufferable_ , Nate!” she snaps, slamming her fork down. People are still staring, out of the corners of their eyes, and usually Sophie is perfectly happy as the center of attention, but not like this, not when it’s not her choice, when it’s not a con or a show. 

Nate catches up to her in the corridor. “Sophie, Sophie please!”

“We are _done_ discussing this, Nate.” Sophie says firmly. “We are going to have a lovely vacation, you’re going to take me to every art gallery in Paris, and then we’re going to find a city and _stay there_ for a good six months until we figure out where our lives are going. But until then, we are done talking about our relationship!” 

Sophie wrenches the door to the next car open and storms inside …

… only to be met with pitch-black compartment full of shouting, screams, and the bark of gunfire in a confined space. 

Nate shoves her down just as Sophie’s realizes what’s happening. The door slams shut, engulfing them in darkness. 

“Fuck!” yells a man’s voice somewhere.

A woman screams. 

Sophie and Nate cling to each other and keep very, very still and very, very silent. 

“Don’t let him escape!” another man’s voice roars. 

Several pairs of feet run around the corridor, doors slam, and another three shots are fired. 

Then … silence. 

The lights come back on. 

There’s a dead body on the floor, a woman clutching a broken necklace, the jewels scattered across the carpet. 

Sophie and Nate find themselves near the train’s manager, and a pair of armed security guards for the train. They very quickly find themselves also under suspicion of being the criminals from the recent shootout, despite all their protestations to the contrary. 

“Oh yes, you just happen to be in here during the attempted robbery!” the manager sneers. “Off for a quick one while your partners are asleep?”

Nate manages to hold Sophie back from a tirade about the man’s insinuations. As he and Sophie are just about to formulate a reason for their being in this car at that time, something happens that blows away any thoughts of cons on the fly.

“Ah, there you are,” says a familiar voice from behind them. “Please relax, sir, I can vouch for them.”

They all turn.

“You can, can you?” the manager sneers. “And who might you be?”

“James Sterling,” the badge is brandished, practically glinting in the light. “Interpol. And these are my two associates. I had them board as undercover passengers. We had intelligence that this train would be targeted by some notorious thieves.” Sterling’s voice is laden with sarcasm, but only Sophie and Nate can hear it as he adds “… and it seems that our intelligence was overwhelmingly accurate.”

The manager splutters and gesticulates while Sophie flashes a grateful smile at Sterling and Nate straightens up to look more like a respectable undercover Interpol Agent, not a suspected thief faced with a longtime adversary and former friend. 

“Now, my associates and I need to have a private meeting, information to compare, reports to write, that sort of thing,” Sterling’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “If you’ll excuse us.”

He waves to Sophie and Nate to follow him, and confidently strides away down the corridor. 

“I demand to be kept informed!” the manager bellows after them.

Sterling waves a hand in the air by way of confirmation. “Tosser,” he mutters under his breath as the round the corner. 

He leads them to a compartment and wrenches the door open. “In,” he snaps, giving Nate a light shove inside. 

Nate stumbles and sits on the bed. Smirking, he pats the space on the blanket beside him, and Sophie joins him. 

Sterling locks the door, turns around, and sees them sitting on his bed. He leans against the door, staring up at the ceiling for a long moment. 

He sighs and looks at them. “Hello, Nate,” Sterling says, with that same easy confidence he’d always used in the past. 

Sophie is surprised that she never quite caught on to the potential flirtation there.

“And hello Sophie,” Sterling nods to her, a gesture she mirrors back politely. 

“Sterling, it’s been …” Nate trails off with purposeful awkwardness. 

“Ages?” Sophie supplies helpfully.

“Yes!” Nate nods. “Ages.”

“What are you two really doing here?” Sterling asks. “Are you involved in this?”

“Why do you think we are?” Nate raises his eyebrows. 

“Because you were found, at the scene of the crime, matching the profile of the thieves in question, and you happen to be thieves yourselves!” 

“Retired thieves,” Sophie leans her head against Nate’s shoulder. “Reformed, even. I haven’t so much as touched a stolen artifact in months.”

“She’s right, Sterling,” Nate slides his arm around Sophie’s waist. “And if you truly thought we were involved, you’d have left us to the train manager and the guards. Why the undercover agents story?”

Sterling purses his lips. “I was supposed to have backup on this operation. They were delayed in Kabul and I had to proceed alone. And while the identities of these thieves are currently unknown, I do know that they’re not you two.”

“How?” Sophie asks, because Sterling is the type of man who wants to explain how he put it all together to a wide-eyed audience, even if he wouldn’t dream of admitting it aloud. 

“This is sloppy work, not the elaborate scheming of Nate Ford or the graceful plans of Sophie Deveraux, aka … well, I’m sure we could list aliases all afternoon, but I have different thieves to catch.” Sterling glanced at the compartment’s door. “Pretending you’re working with me will keep the train manager off your backs for the rest of the trip.” He mutters, belatedly. 

“Well, that sounds slightly more interesting than what we were getting up to before.” Sophie perks up considerably. “How may we be of assistance?”

Sterling eyes her warily. “Excuse me?”

“We help catch the thieves, you get all the credit, just like old times, eh?” Nate grins.

Sterling raises his eyebrows. “You’d do that? Really? What’s in it for you?”

“Ah, we’re retired,” Nate holds up a finger. “We’re just a pair of concerned citizens assisting Interpol out of a sense of public duty.”

“Oh yes,” Sophie nods, hardly able to hold back a giggle.

Sterling pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine, fine. I’m trapped on a train with who knows how many armed thieves, who’ve already killed at least one person, you two show up, again, in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ll just accept this, shall I?”

“Probably for the best. Wouldn’t you say?” Nate glances at Sophie.

“Oh, most definitely,” Sophie nods seriously. 

She’s very aware that they’re sitting on Sterling’s bed. She crosses her legs, brushing against Nate’s leg, and Sterling _looks_.

Sophie leans against Nate again, and wonders if the empty space in their lives is going to be filled at long last. 

~*~

Parker hasn’t felt like this in years. 

There’s always been a plan. Lately, she’s been the one in charge of those plans. Which was daunting at first, but Nate had trained her well, and Sophie had trained her well, and Hardison and Eliot had helped her on her way to the position of mastermind. 

Now Eliot is gone. Eliot was taken. 

And Parker doesn’t have a plan. 

She has to formulate one, and fast. The statistics of kidnappings run through her mind at lightning speed. She scrolls through the list of people who’d want Eliot dead. It’s a very long list. It’s a very chilling list. 

Hardison has been tracking the van that took Eliot from the theater. He’s been combing traffic cams and illegally tapping into security footage from around the city. He hasn’t slept. He doesn’t trust anyone else to do this but himself. 

Parker hasn’t slept either. 

First, they have to find Eliot … then …

… then …

“Private plane, private airfield. But, public grid, which means I can hack into the security camera.” Hardison isn’t his usual excited self, there’s no cheerful triumph in his voice. He’s giving her the facts, because that’s what she needs right now. 

“Can you track the plane?” 

“Doing it right now. Algorithm will take a while. But it’s a plane, it’s gotta land somewhere, refuel, and then we’ll know more.”

It could be landing on some private island. It could be landing in the middle of a desert. It could be flying out over the ocean, and the kidnappers could toss Eliot out into empty air at 10,000 feet. 

No. They would have just killed him outside the theater if that’s what they wanted, Eliot dead right away. They took him somewhere. So whoever had Eliot taken wants it to last. 

Parker opens her mouth to voice this, but holds back. Hardison won’t be comforted by that assessment, it would only upset him. He’s becoming more comfortable with the more extreme side of their cons, but even so, he’ll always be sensitive. It’s not a bad thing, but it is something that Parker has to take into consideration when she plans and plots. 

A computer screen dings, lights up. 

Hardison freezes. “Nobody has that contact information.” He says, glancing at Parker. “That’s supposed to be a secure link for us.”

“Eliot.” Parker says, standing up and heading for the screen. “Or whoever has him.” She glances at Hardison. “You might not want to see this.”

Hardison straightens up. “I’m not leaving.” 

Parker nods, and opens the email. 

It’s a video attachment. Grainy security footage of Eliot chained up in a windowless cell. 

Superimposed over the video is simple text: 

_You want your dog back?_  
_Bring Vermeer’s “The Concert” to the San Lorenzo national gallery._  
_You have three days._

Then the video cuts to black. 

Parker watches the video again. And again. And again.

“Damien Moreau,” she says at last. “He’s out.”

“Makes sense. San Lorenzo, Eliot …” Hardison shakes his head. “This is bad. Very, very bad.”

Parker nods. “Keep looking for that plane.”

“What are you going to do?” Hardison asks, already heading back to his computers. ““The Concert” was stolen in 1990, nobody’s seen it since.” 

“I know people. I’ll find it.”

“Whoever has it isn’t going to want to give it up.”

“Then it’s a good thing I’m a thief.” Parker puts a hand on Hardison’s shoulder, because that’s what she’s supposed to do to comfort someone, and he likes it when she tries things like this. “We don’t have time to forge a convincing enough fake and search for Eliot too. You find Eliot. I’ll get the painting.” 

It doesn’t matter how much security, how many guards, are in the way. All Parker can see is a long dark hallway, with _The Concert_ at the end. She’s going to pull off the most complicated heist of her life, and she has less than three days to do it. 

Eliot is somewhere, alone, in pain, in the clutches of one of the most dangerous men in the world. 

Parker and Hardison are going to get him back. 

~*~

Eliot does not want to die.

But he would rather die than let Parker and Hardison see him like this.

He straightens up from the broken body of his latest opponent. He has no idea who the man was, what his crimes or misfortunes were, what brought him to this place, in reach of Eliot’s hands. He will never know who this man was.

Eliot watches them drag the body away, looks around for his next opponent. He has already started to lose track of how many people he has fought. Men, a few women, in ones and twos and, rarely, threes. Armed with close combat weapons or not. All have fallen to him. 

Moreau told him, before throwing him into the arena, that he wanted Eliot to last at least three days. Three days of fighting, of jeering crowds betting on the outcomes from their vantage points high above the pit.

Eliot has endured two already. 

Eliot used to kill like it was as easy as anything, second nature. For years now, he’s been perfecting non-lethal holds and pulling his punches. He has killed relatively few in his years with the Leverage team. 

A man runs at him, screaming, fists raises, a knife in one hand, and Eliot rushes forward to meet him. After a few blows and strikes, the man is dead, and the knife is in Eliot’s hand. 

When Eliot curls up in his cell and drifts into an uneasy sleep, he does not allow himself to think of Parker and Hardison. He cannot think of them in a place like this, when he is in this state. Eliot fears that too much of this fighting and restless sleeping and frantic adrenaline rushes will make him delusional, and then he will think of them, imagine them bandaging his wounds and holding him close and taking him to bed, Parker on his left and Hardison on his right, being so gentle and careful, telling him that he is _theirs_.

Eliot shudders and banishes those thoughts from his mind. They have no place here, in the painful, dark, damp cell. 

He sleeps, and dreams of the first time Moreau took him aside after a retrieval mission. 

_“What are you?” Moreau demands._

_“Yours.” Eliot gasps out._

_“And what will you always be?” Moreau asks, wrenching Eliot’s head back._

_“Your dog.”_

_Eliot spends the next three years believing that._

~*~

“So, I understand why it’s necessary for Sophie to be flouncing about getting a read on everyone in here,” James says, glancing over his menu in the dining compartment. “But why are we required to eat dinner together again?”

Nate shrugs. “Appearances. That train manager didn’t seem too convinced by your story. The more we’re seen together, the less suspicious he is.” 

James rolls his eyes. “Maybe these thieves will do us a kindness and shove him out the door when we’re stopped for more track clearing.”

The heavy snows have been delaying the train’s progress for several hours today already, and is predicted to continue to impede their progress. This winter is a particularly heavy one. Unfortunately, the train can only go forward, as rerouting would be too costly and risky from this position in the mountains. 

“One can only hope,” Nate raises his glass and holds it out. 

James doesn’t join him in the toast, and watches warily as Nate downs the contents. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not drinking again,” Nate admits, setting his glass down. “Made Sophie a promise.”

“And you keep your promises now, do you?” James asks, before he can stop himself. 

Nate smiles, though there’s a bitter edge to his words when he responds “Honor among thieves.”

“Ah, that would explain it. I’m not a thief, and neither is Maggie.”

Nate scowls. “I don’t want to talk about her.”

“Really?” James tilts his head to the side. “Fancy that. Nate Ford doesn’t want to talk about relationships. Now that brings me back.”

“Don’t.” Nate says, gripping his glass tightly. “Don’t, James, not tonight.”

“Then when?” James leans forward. “Not only did she lose her child, she lost her stable family. She lost her triad.”

“You were still there,” Nate glares. “You could have made it work.”

“As a couple?” James stares at him, incredulous. “She was getting enough pity from her friends as it was. You know Maggie didn’t want that, she never wanted that. You remember how happy she was when you brought me home that first night. She’d been waiting for something like that for years, a proper three parent household for Sam.”

Nate’s glare deepens. “Don’t you say his name.”

“What, _Sam_?” James’ voice carries across the dining cart. People are starting to stare. He ignores them, focuses on Nate. The arrogance of this man, this frustrating man. “I’d only been living with you for five months, but Sam was as much my son as –”

Nate slams his fist down onto the table.

James stares at the fist, then up at Nate. “Is that supposed to intimidate me, Nate?”

Nate visibly steadies himself. “I couldn’t look at you anymore, not without seeing … seeing them. IYS. Letting my son die. I know that wasn’t fair to you, or to Maggie, but I was hardly thinking rationally at the time. I … I have a lot of regrets, about how I was, back then. Forcing you out, that’s something I regret very much.”

James stares at Nate. He wasn’t expecting something like this, not after all this time. “Nate, I’m … I …” there’s nothing he can say that can make this right, that will convey how he feels about everything. “… sorry.”

Nate shrugs. “It wasn’t your fault. You weren’t the one who denied my son treatment. Maybe if I’d let you stay, maybe …” Nate shakes his head. “That’s in the past, now.”

James pours himself another drink. “To new beginnings?” he offers, cautious yet hopeful.

Nate smiles, a small smile, but a smile nonetheless. They clink glasses. 

BANG.

“Get down!”

Passengers scream and dive under their tables. Nate hurls his glass at an oncoming man in a tuxedo carrying a gun, while James sticks out his foot. The man staggers and rolls, but manages to flee out into the next train car.

“After him!” Sophie yells, teetering down the aisle. She kicks off her heels and starts running. “He’s got my engagement ring!” 

Nate is moving before James can even think. Sophie and Nate are through the doors fast, but James is right behind them. 

“Everybody stay here, we’re with Interpol!” James calls over his shoulder, flashing his badge. “Everybody remain calm!”

The tuxedo man can run fast. He turns and fires wildly, the bullets striking the paneled wood and even breaking a window. 

Nate dives down, tackling Sophie, as soon as the first shot is fired, James kicks in a compartment door and takes cover while Nate and Sophie crawl inside to relative safety. 

“Interpol agents don’t carry guns,” Nate grumbles to himself. 

“Shut up!” James hisses. 

“Hush, boys.” Sophie straightens up and calls out, in a strong French accent, “Anthony, really, this is ridiculous! Your mother taught you better than this!”

“Don’t tell me how to run my jobs, Aunt Colette!” the tuxedo man yells down the corridor. 

“Anthony, if only your poor mother could see you now. Stealing rings from family, getting into shootouts with the authorities. You don’t even have a proper escape route worked out, do you?”

Silence.

“Now that’s where you’re wrong,” calls out a new voice, a woman’s voice, from the end of the corridor Anthony ran down.

“Oh no,” Sophie’s face falls. “He’s got an accomplice.”

“Is that a problem?” Nate whispers back. 

“Yes. Anthony is incredibly susceptible to powerful women. I’m family, I did a few jobs with his mother about ten years ago … but if he’s sleeping with this woman …” Sophie shakes her head. “This is not good.”

James feels a stab of fear, not for himself strangely enough, but for Sophie. If her alias doesn’t hold up, the accomplice has already proven herself capable of murder. 

“I’m afraid all we have to do is wait for our ride to arrive, and we’ll be off,” the woman laughs. “Anthony, dear, give me the gun. You know I’m a far better shot.”

“Only if you promise not to shoot my Aunt.” Anthony says firmly. “I don’t care about the others.”

“As you say.”

BANG.

Sophie gasps, and clings to Nate, her face suddenly deathly pale.

“You … you shot me …” Anthony sounds more confused than angry. Then there’s the sound of him falling over and groaning in agony. “Mary … why …”

“Sorry, lover, but you’re not cut out for the rougher stuff.”

James notices that the train has stopped moving, again. Either due to the chaos from the chase through the dining compartment, or another delay from the heavy snows. 

Either way, for a skilled enough pilot, the train has just become one long landing pad. And as the accomplice Mary just revealed, a helicopter is on the way. 

“Mary!” Sophie calls out, sounding remarkably steady for someone so visibly shaken. “Is my nephew still alive?”

“For the moment.”

“Do you intend to kill him?”

“I haven’t really decided,” Mary’s shrug is practically audible. “If he, or any of you down there, try and stop me escaping, I will shoot to kill.”

“I recommend leaving him alive. Besides my personal stake in this matter, his murder couldn’t be explained away as a struggle in the dark, like that woman the other night. And you’ll have three witnesses.”

“I won’t if I kill you three as well.”

“Do you really have time for that?” Sophie asks, icy calm while speculating about her own murder. “I don’t think so. Plus, the international attention for killing an Interpol Agent … you’ll have enough heat from this heist as it is. Cut your loses and get out while you can, Mary.”

James scowls. No weapons, no backup, no local authorities to assist. “She’s going to escape,” he mutters. Then he swears, in Russian, because he learned some choice curses on his latest mission there. 

“You can’t win them all,” Nate murmurs. “We can save the boy, at least. He’ll have some information that could be of use to you.”

“I never lose.” James growls. 

“There’s no reason to call this a loss.” Nate says. “You’re being dramatic, Sterling.”

“A woman is dead!” James hisses, struggling to keep his voice down. 

“And you’ll have her murderer’s face once you pull the security footage.” Sophie points out. “You’ll have an accomplice, the M.O., and you’ve heard her voice.” Sophie shrugs. “Do you mean to tell me that Interpol can’t track a helicopter? Sooner or later, she’ll be behind bars.”

James has to agree with that. She’s not wrong.

Sophie calls out “If you would do me the professional courtesy of leaving my nephew alive, I think I can persuade this Interpol agent to restrain himself from trying anything heroic. And you can make your escape.”

“… I’d appreciate that.” Mary sounds convinced, in spite of herself. 

James stares at Sophie in unadulterated awe. She’s turned a potential murderer into an almost friendly acquaintance in the space of a conversation. Nate catches his eye and grins, nodding to Sophie and beaming. 

Not for the first time, James understands what Nate sees in her. 

“I hope we can meet again under less trying circumstances. Without any pesky Interpol Agents lurking around.”

James glares in the direction of Mary’s voice. 

“Think of the wanted posters,” Sophie whispers, pressing a hand onto his shoulder. “You’ll get her soon enough.”

He knows. Still, listening to the approaching helicopter, the clang as it lands on the roof, and the triumphant shout from the murderous jewel thief making her daring escape, is not something that James enjoys in the slightest. 

As soon as the hatch on the roof has clanged shut, he rushes out to Anthony. While James and Sophie deal with the bleeding, he sends Nate to fetch the security guards. 

The bullet wound is barely more than a graze. Not near any major arteries. James bandages it as best he can and makes sure the onboard doctor will check in periodically in case the bleeding increases drastically. 

After that, it’s an easy case of locking Anthony up in a compartment and posting a guard. He’ll be arrested properly in Paris. 

James sticks a notepad and a pen on the table in front of Anthony, and then lets Sophie have a few moments alone with him.

By the time she emerges, she has a list of names and her engagement ring. Anthony is sitting against the wall, looking like a kicked puppy. 

“Some very nasty characters on this list,” Sophie says, voice laden with concern, as she hands the list over to Sterling. “As well as a list of hideouts that his accomplice is likely to be headed to with the helicopter. And an inventory of several of the jewels they’ve plundered over the past eighteen months.”

“Impressive,” James admits, without an ounce of sarcasm, because it truly is impressive. It isn’t until then that James realizes he didn’t, for a second, doubt in Sophie. He didn’t think she would abandon him to the gun-wielding jewel thief, he didn’t even consider the option that a former criminal would betray him, a current lawman. 

“Strange, seeing it from this side,” Sophie murmurs, as James locks the door on Anthony. 

“Better?” James asks.

Sophie chuckles. “Hardly. No, just … different.” She shrugs, leans against Nate. “I wasn’t too harsh with poor Anthony, was I?” 

“You were perfect,” Nate presses a kiss to her neck. Then her cheek. Then her mouth. 

James coughs. “Shall we, ah, convene in my compartment? I have to send this to Interpol, and I have paperwork to fill out.”

“He never clocks off,” Nate stage-whispers to Sophie, who giggles. 

James ignores them, and heads off to his room. 

They follow him after a few moments. 

~*~

Hardison waits, watching his algorithms work. They’re good, they’re excellent, they can rival those of almost any hacker on the planet.

And he’s afraid they’re not good enough.

Eliot is somewhere, somewhere in Eastern Europe, but that’s as close as he’s managed to narrow things down. That’s taken him two days. Parker left about an hour after the video was sent to them, left to find a painting stolen almost 25 years ago. 

She sent him a tiny message – _I have it. Going to SL now._ – six hours ago, and Hardison knows she’s good, knows she’s amazing, but even so, that is damn impressive. 

A chime from one of his computers sounds, and Hardison looks at the blinking notification in horror. It’s another video, from the same source, no subject line. 

It could have more information about where Eliot is. He can’t wait for Parker to come back, he has to open this on his own.

This clip could show Eliot’s execution. 

Hardison clicks the link. 

Three hours later, Parker arrives, dark circles under her eyes but otherwise unscathed. Hardison meets her at the door, envelopes her in his arms. 

“They took it.” Parker says.

“I know.” Hardison holds her tightly. He can’t lose her too, he won’t, he doesn’t want to lose either of them, but he never for a second imagined Eliot could be taken from them, and yet was. “They could have taken you too. I couldn’t … I can’t …”

Parker doesn’t pretend otherwise. Hardison appreciates that, appreciates that she’s not coddling him as much as she used to. He knows she used to hide things from him, that she isn’t anymore, not quite as much at least. There’s parts of her life he’ll never know about, and he’s ok with that. There’s whole chunks of Eliot’s life blanked out, that neither of them will ever see. 

“They sent another video.”

Parker stiffens. “What –”

“He’s still alive. But … it’s not good.”

Hardison shows her the video. He holds her hand tightly, thinking of that island he bought years ago. Perfectly isolated, protected, a secure safe home with a private satellite monitoring all incoming boats and planes for a hundred mile radius. 

Parker studies the video, replays it, pauses at key moments, and plays it through once more. 

The video clip is longer this time. Eliot is in some kind of fighting ring, in a pit, fighting another man. He’s bruised and bloody, favoring his left side, and limping. He kills his opponent by the video’s end and collapses onto the ground, panting but alive. 

The text this time is the same font:

_Thank you for the painting._  
_I’ll put him down mercifully when the time comes._  
_Such a loyal pet deserves nothing less._

“Do you know where it is?”

“I’m running every program I have, all I’ve got is Eastern Europe so far. I’ve eliminated a few countries, but it’s slow going.”

“Would another hacker help?”

“I don’t know.”

“Keep going,” Parker stood up. “I’m going to work on our extraction plan, for when we have a location.”

“He … Parker, what if he’s …” Hardison doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the concept, the idea. He doesn’t want to make it real, give it weight. 

“We have time. Moreau could have sent us his execution. He didn’t. We have time. Not much, but we have some time.” Parker leaves the room.

Hardison sits at his monitors and keeps running his programs. He traces the latest email, runs the footage through every piece of identifying software from every major government. 

They have to find Eliot.

They have to get him back. 

~*~

They seem to have forgotten that he’s here. 

James is trying to finish up his report on the captured jewel thieves. Or, rather, he was, because when he turns around to ask Nate and Sophie for clarification on a detail, they’re preoccupied with getting each other horizontal. On James’ bed. And suddenly all notions of paperwork have faded away, rather quickly. 

It’s incredibly distracting, watching them together. No cons, no aliases, no contemptible caricatures meant to draw the eye and distract from the sleight of hand. Just a man and a woman, basking in their love for one another. It’s downright obscene, like those kinky films that feature couples and position the camera as a voyeuristic and non-participating third. Two sets of hands, two sets of mouths, two bodies rolling around in an enormous bed, without a third in sight. James feels himself blushing. Nate and Sophie’s flagrant display reminding him of the kinkier clubs in Europe he’s visited, more often for business than pleasure, busting human trafficking rings and tracing stolen paintings.

They either don’t notice (unlikely) or don’t care that he’s watching them. He’s not sure if they want to make him uncomfortable or they’re conning him or, heavens forbid, attempting to _flirt_ with him. 

James knows that he seems an awful lot like an easy mark, for the classic con: an attractive couple seducing a single into their triad, taking them for everything they’ve got and then leaving them, destitute and alone. 

He gets looks, sometimes, when he travels with some of the younger, prettier recruits. People thinking less of him, whispering “mid-life crisis” and “can’t settle down.” It stings, even though James reminds himself constantly that they don’t know him or his life, and that what goes on behind closed doors is none of their business so long as everyone’s of age and there willingly. He doesn’t sleep with his agents, even the ones who proposition him, because it wouldn’t be ethical. Besides, more of them are starting to frighteningly resemble James’ daughter, and that’s certainly not a visual he wants going to bed with someone. 

Still, people tease him, about the women he hires. James has heard them referred to as his “Angels” and “Fembots” and more offensive nicknames too. In truth, he only hires the best, and even in this supposedly progressive age, female agents are often denied deserved promotions and shunted away from the high profile cases. James has carved out a desirable position for himself, one that affords him a modicum of power, and he sees fit to use his power to aid those who, through no fault of their own, have been denied opportunities handed to their (usually male, overwhelmingly white) coworkers. The success of his task force speak for themselves, and he prides himself on the success rates of his agents, every closed case and caught criminal a slap in the face to those who kept the “Angels” stuck at desk jobs and buried their sexual harassment reports. Others might have been content to let such talented agents waste away, but James is not one of them. 

(Samia is currently running things, while he takes this vacation. She was one of the first agents he recruited, a master of paperwork and wielding enough scathing insults to reduce some of the younger agents to tears.)

Still, he can’t help but suspect that this is some sort of ploy on their part. It wouldn’t be the first time that Nate and Sophie have tried to make him uncomfortable on a con. What sort of ploy this is, he’s not certain, but the idea that Nate and Sophie are honestly trying to seduce him out of genuine desire, without any hidden agendas, barely crosses Sterling’s mind. 

He debates the best course of action: whether to snap at them and ask them to leave, sneak out and wait in the dining car for them to finish, or pointedly rummage through Sophie’s bag for her room key and take over their room in a kind of passive aggressive revenge. 

Sophie sits up in bed, pushing Nate down into the tangle of blankets. Her dress is half unzipped, and she’s got her left hand grasping at Nate’s tie. She turns looking over her shoulder at James, the picture of seduction. 

“How much longer is that report going to take, Sterling? There’s only so long I can keep him preoccupied by myself. I could use some help up here.”

James gapes at her. He knows he must look ridiculous, but he can’t help it. 

Nate slides a hand up Sophie’s thigh, underneath the hem of her dress. James watches, and Sophie sees him watching. 

“You can touch, if you want,” Sophie fixes him with a penetrating stare. “Unless you don’t want to? You’ve made yourself very difficult to read, James, even for someone like me.”

James stands up, slowly, makes his way to the edge of the bed. “If this is a trick, or a joke, I will arrest the pair of you.”

“For what?” Sophie asks. 

“I’ll think of something.” James growls, pulling off his jacket. “Plenty of room in that locked compartment for more thieves.”

“Good thing we’re not thieves anymore,” Nate says, grinning up at James. “Hey, slow down, let Sophie help you with that.”

James pauses, fingers pulling at the third button to his shirt. 

“I have a better idea,” Sophie beckons James closer, and James dutifully obeys. He tenses when she pulls on his tie, but she lets it go quickly. 

“Why don’t you handle his shirt?” Sophie says, passing the end of the tie off to Nate. 

“And what will you be doing? Watching?” Nate asks, hands already on James’ shirt. 

“Hardly,” and then Sophie is sliding her hand up James’ thigh.

James makes an incoherent sound and lets them get to work. 

~*~

Eliot knows that this fight is his last.

His body aches like it hasn’t in years. He knows at least two ribs are cracked. A few more hits, and he’ll have blood in his lungs, and that will be the end of him. 

It hasn’t been as bad as he’d expected. Moreau has let him rest after most of the fights, fed him adequately. Moreau hasn’t sent in men to torture Eliot, hasn’t injected him with drugs. 

The visits have been unpleasant, but Eliot expected them the moment he saw who had captured him. Moreau likes pain, and control, and he can inflict them as he likes on Eliot now. Eliot tries to compartmentalize, distance himself. He does not permit himself to think of Parker and Hardison in those instances. When Moreau puts his hands on Eliot, Eliot thinks of anything else. He thinks of the schematics for a safe in Bangladesh, a long road through northern Russia, a skydive from his second tour. He thinks of his life before Parker and Hardison, keeps that safe and pristine. 

Now, thankfully, that’s all over with. 

Eliot steps into the ring for the final time, eyes up his opponent, decides that at least he can go down swinging. He won’t die chained to a bed, with Moreau’s hands around his throat. He won’t die after making a stupid mistake in a few years, having gotten too old and stayed too stubborn to get out of the game while he still could. 

He won’t die saving Parker and Hardison either.

That stings, Eliot’s final regret is that he didn’t find a proper replacement for them to select. They’ll find someone though, they’re smart, he taught them well. Maybe that Quinn kid, he was promising, he’s worked with them before. 

Eliot circles on the gritty floor, hands held up defensively. His opponent is big, bulky, all muscle, with a boxer’s nose. He’s got a good six inches on Eliot and definitely weighs more. He’s also chuckling, and his eyes are a little unfocussed. Maybe he’s shooting up before the matches, maybe he’s like Eliot, an unwilling participant being pushed into this by some shadowy crime lord. 

Either way, it doesn’t really matter. Eliot kind of wishes he knew the name of the man who’s about to kill him, but it’s not like he’ll be around to remember it for long. 

The lights flicker. There’s some murmured conversation from the onlookers – a general mixture of local criminal figures and international underworld personalities eager for more bloodsport. Someone’s yelled at and scurries off to fix the lights, presumably. 

The man rushes Eliot, screaming, fists flying. Eliot manages to keep up at first, land a few blows, but he’s slow, he’s weakened, and he’s got some nasty injuries that are hindering him. And this guy isn’t good, but he’s good enough to do the job. 

Eliot falls, the other man’s hands on his throat. He scrambles, fingers pushing into nerves and muscle, but it’s not enough. The man keeps pushing, pressing. 

It’ll be over soon. 

There’s a ringing in Eliot’s ears. He thinks about all the people he’s killed like this, strangled to keep silent during a mission, so as to not alert their comrades. Not the worst way he’s ever killed someone, but it’s appropriate enough he supposes. 

Then the hands are gone, and he can breathe again. Eliot coughs, rolls over, scrambles backwards as best he can, away from the man. 

The man is hauled up out of the pit. Then Eliot is too. 

He’s dumped on the carpeted floor, still coughing. One of those hits fractured another rib, Eliot’s pretty sure, at least it feels like it. 

Moreau is kneeling in front of him. 

Eliot’s first thought is that Moreau wanted to kill him with his own hands. 

Then he sees Parker standing behind Moreau. 

And then Hardison is suddenly there, crouching down beside Eliot, touching his face, flashing a little flashlight into his eyes. 

“Dammit … Hardison …” Eliot manages. 

Hardison smiles. 

Eliot spits up blood.

Hardison’s smile falls. He presses fingers against Eliot’s chest and frowns at every wince it elicits from Eliot. 

“Two, maybe three ribs,” Hardison says.

Eliot glances around, sees that the crowd is gone. He spots two figures covering the exits, figures he can’t recognize but seem familiar. Their weapons are familiar, military-issue hardware. Parker and Hardison came, and they came ready for a fight. 

A significant look passes between Parker and Hardison. Parker nods, kicks Moreau down, and steps towards Hardison. 

Eliot watches Hardison stand up, and take a gun out from a bag.

Eliot blinks through the blood, shaking his head. “No … no.” He can’t let them do this. He can’t. Especially not Hardison. 

“They couldn’t hold him in San Lorenzo,” Hardison says. “He can’t escape again.”

Eliot thinks back on all the bad people they’ve put behind bars. Moreau was there once, maybe a prison can hold him again … but no, they’ll always be worrying now, looking over their shoulders for his assassins, or him, coming for them. 

“He killed kids.” Parker says simply, as if that’s all the debate that needs to happen. Which, honestly, it is. 

“So did I.” Eliot spits out more blood. 

There. He said it. Maybe when they’ve killed Moreau they can put a bullet in Eliot’s head too. 

“Because he told you to.” Hardison says. 

“We’re going to talk about it later … but right now, this is about him.” Parker nods at Moreau.

Hardison loads the gun, carefully, and it makes Eliot sick to see him handling a gun. Hardison should never have to handle a gun, that’s Eliot’s job. Eliot gets his hands dirty and his fingers bloody and Hardison and Parker stay clean and safe and free of sin. He carries it for them, shields them from it. 

Hardison hands the gun off to Parker. It looks better in her hands. Eliot isn’t naïve, he knows she’s killed before, but it doesn’t mean the same thing to her that it means to him. For a long time, Parker didn’t see people as … well, people. She saw things, objectives, puzzles, maps, and money, but she didn’t see people. If she shoved a few things aside, it didn’t matter. 

Now things matter to her. People, people matter to her. This could send her spiraling back, to how she was years ago. All because Eliot wasn’t fast enough. 

She flicks the safety off.

Eliot’s breath stops.

Parker leans down and presses the gun into his hand. 

“Finish this, Eliot.”

It takes the both of them to get Eliot upright, Hardison and Parker’s arms under his, lifting him and gripping his shoulders. 

But they manage. And Eliot points the gun at Moreau.

Moreau, to his credit, doesn’t try to run. He doesn’t beg or plead for his life. 

He pushes himself back up onto his knees, shakes his head slightly, and closes his eyes, a slight smile on his lips. 

Eliot pulls the trigger. 

Moreau falls.

Eliot passes out.


	3. Epilogue

The morning after is a lot more comfortable than Nate had anticipated. 

He turns and sees Sophie on his right, just like he has for countless mornings since they started this. Her hair is utterly tangled, a mess she attacks every morning for a solid hour. Nate loves seeing her beforehand, before she puts on her latest mask, her latest persona, when she’s simply Lara, just waking up in the morning and blinking out of sleep. 

Then he turns to his left and James is there, frowning at the remnants of a dream, stretching and looking around in confusion as he remembers where he is.

“Morning,” Nate yawns.

James pushes himself up, looks at the pair of them. “Are you going to pretend this never happened?”

“I wasn’t planning to, no,” Sophie glances at Nate. “I don’t think we should. That was even more enjoyable than I’d predicted. And I’m usually quite good at predicting that sort of thing.”

James blushes. A man his age, in bed with two people, has no business blushing, but he is. 

Nate grins. “There you have it. No pretending going on here.”

“No con, no game,” Sophie sits up and stretches. “I’d say I felt naked, but, well, I already am. Literally and metaphorically.”

Nate eyes James. “Having second thoughts?”

“No.” James frowns. “Though I probably should be. I’m meant to settle down with … I don’t know, but not a pair of thieves.”

“Ex-thieves,” Sophie and Nate correct, in unison. 

Sophie gives Nate a peck on the cheek for that. Nate turns his head and makes it into a proper kiss. 

“I hesitate to declare it so soon after one night, but … I do believe we’ve found our third, Nate,” Sophie says as she leans out of the kiss. 

“Finally,” Nate turns to James. “She’s been after me about this for almost a year.”

“As I should have been! I wanted to retire and settle down in a proper relationship, and that takes three!” Sophie gestures to the bed. “Finally, I’m respectable!”

“Not too respectable, I hope?” James raises an eyebrow. “I must admit, there’s some things I’ve always wanted to explore with you two. They don’t exactly lend themselves to … respectable people.”

It’s Nate’s turn to blush. Those handcuffs from that art theft case back in Portland must have given James ideas. If he hadn’t already been having them.

Now _there_ was an interesting thought. 

“Really, Agent Sterling?” Sophie’s eyes flash wickedly. “Do tell.”

“Perhaps we should save that for the third date, at least,” James smiles. “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m overly eager.”

“You never told me he was a tease, Nate!” Sophie leans on Nate’s shoulder. “We’re going to have such fun, the three of us.”

“You know, I think we are,” Nate grins, turns to James. “It was the handcuffs, wasn’t it?”

“You’ll find out, on the third date,” James says. 

Nate pulls James in for a kiss as well.

“Gah, your morning breath is just as atrocious as it was seven years ago!” James splutters. 

Sophie laughs, and gets up out of bed. She opens the curtains, blinding morning sunlight breaking through.

“Paris,” Sophie beams. “At last.”

Nate traces small circles against James’ wrist. “At last,” he repeats. Then he pulls Sophie back to bed. 

~*~

First, Eliot wanted to talk.

He tried to speak, but the pain was too much, and he ended up passing out instead. 

After what he’s pretty sure is about a week, he can sit up in bed and hold a spoon, and his thoughts can string themselves together. 

“I’m sorry,” is the first thing he says, after drinking the water Hardison is offering him through a straw. 

“You have nothing to apologize for,” Parker says firmly. She’s curled up in a chair by his bed, hugging her knees to her chest. 

“I … I …” Eliot closes his eyes, sees the men he killed in that pit. “Did you see?”

“Some.” Hardison admits. 

“You can tell us if you want, or not,” Parker unfurls her limbs. 

“But it doesn’t matter what you say, or don’t say, because we aren’t going to kick you out.” Hardison squeezes Eliot’s hand gently. “Like we’d get anywhere without you by our sides.” 

Eliot frowns. “You don’t understand …” he coughs. “I’m … weak. Look at what they … did to me …” he shakes his head. “I can’t protect you anymore, not like I should be able to. You need –”

“What we need is you,” Hardison says, forcefully enough that Eliot stops talking. “We can hire muscle if we need muscle. You’re not just muscle, Eliot. You’re … you’re …” he looks to Parker helplessly. “Help me out?”

“Pretzels.” Parker hops out of her chair and onto the bed, onto Eliot’s other side. “I used to think that just meant me and Hardison, but … then I started realizing it also meant you and me. And you and Hardison. And me and you and Hardison.” Parker lays down beside Eliot, not touching him, but achingly close. “And you want that too. You don’t hide it well. You think you do, but you don’t.” 

“Hey, he still needs to rest!” Hardison warns. “Much as I’ve been fighting the urge to cuddle him for the past five days, the important word there is ‘fighting.’”

“I think Eliot can handle this,” Parker locks eyes with Eliot. “Am I right?”

Eliot feels the massive, crushing weight of the past few years being lifted. His body feels almost weightless.

Granted, that could be the painkillers, but he’s pretty certain it’s also the revelation that his feelings for Parker and Hardison are no longer unrequited. 

“Dammit, Hardison,” Eliot mutters. “Get up here already.”

Hardison’s face splits into a wide grin. He carefully gets onto the bed, staying a good few inches away before Eliot grabs him around the shoulders and pulls him in closer. 

Parker takes the initiative and snuggles against his other side, wrapping an arm around Eliot’s waist to avoid his bandaged ribs. 

Eliot has a good life. 

And now, he’s going to have a good future.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art: The Tiger Job / Murder on the Venice-Simplon Orient Express](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2445440) by [Errantry (Hecateae)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecateae/pseuds/Errantry)




End file.
